


we are for each other

by Anjali_Organna



Series: Modern King AU [8]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anjali_Organna/pseuds/Anjali_Organna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Morgana plans a party, people make bad decisions and Gwen comes to a Realization. Final part in the Modern King AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are for each other

“Oh, my god,” Gwen says in horror. “Absolutely not.”

Morgana makes a wordless sound of disgust. “You are so boring. It’s your birthday! The entire point of your birthday is to celebrate!”

“I thought the entire point of my birthday was do to whatever _I_ wanted to do.”

“Not if everything you want to do is completely and utterly lame! Really, Gwen, _Scrabble_??”

“I like Scrabble,” Leon says mildly.

“Be quiet,” Morgana tells him. “Gwen. Your wedding is in three months--”

“Don’t remind me.”

“--and you’ve gone to precisely two media-friendly events since you’ve announced your engagement. The people are dying to know more about you. They want photos and stories. They want columns analyzing your sartorial choices. And for god’s sake, would it kill you and Arthur to be even a teensy bit affectionate in public? Would a little hand-holding seriously end the world?”

“You made us redo the engagement pictures,” Gwen says.

“Yes, because they were _actually terrible_. [You looked like you were on the cover of some romance novel](http://kheldara.tumblr.com/image/3925647232) or something. And he was all pouty and you were...well, I don’t even know _what_ you thought you were doing.”

“So they were a little stiff...”

Morgana gives a bark of laughter. “Oh, Gwen. My dear, dear girl. Anyways, my point is you’ve done nothing but hide in your apartment or hide at work for the last two months, and something has got to give.”

“It might lessen the paparazzi pressure,” Merlin points out, “if you throw them a bone here.”

“Don’t you think that’ll just be feeding the beast?” Gwen objects.

Leon looks at her sympathetically. “I’m afraid the beast is never going to let up on you, Gwen. But Merlin’s right. They might stop rifling through your trash bins, at least for a couple days.”

“Yes! Listen to Leon!” Morgana says. “He knows. He went through the same thing with his band.”

“You’re going to have to learn to manage the media,” Leon says. “Why not make it sooner rather than later?”

Which is how Gwen ends up agreeing to a huge fete for her 28th birthday.

*

“You’re sure this is a good idea?” Arthur says to her later that night.

“Of course it’s not a good idea,” Gwen says in frustration. “Your stupid sister and her stupid boyfriend and stupid Merlin had me convinced it was the right thing to do. I went temporarily insane.”

“...Okay,” Arthur says slowly, as though he’s afraid any quick words or movements will only set her off. “So don’t do it.”

Gwen rounds on him. “Morgana’s already booked the venue. And probably leaked word to the papers and sent out invitations...”

“Gwen,” Arthur says, putting his hands on her shoulders and guiding her gently to a seat. “It’s a party. You probably don’t have to do anything more than show up and smile.”

“That’s what everyone said about the press conference. And all the interviews directly afterwards.”

Arthur steps back, leaning against the elegant, mahogany desk that is probably a priceless antique from like, the Tudor era. She should probably tell him not to lean on it. The stewards would probably have conniptions if he broke it.

“There’s still time, you know,” he says. “To get out of it.”

“I told you, Morgana’s already booked a place. Some club you lot like to go to.”

“I’m not talking about the birthday party,” Arthur says quietly.

Gwen’s still thinking about the Tudors, wondering what kind of desks they had, so Arthur’s comment doesn’t immediately process. Then she looks up sharply.

“What are you talking about?”

He lifts a shoulder helplessly. “You’ve been so quiet these past few months. Through all the publicity, all the people hounding you, and then the whole thing with your job.... I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But not if marrying me means that you’ll spend the rest of _your_ life miserable.”

Gwen shuts her eyes. “Oh, damn it. Oh, Arthur, no. I’m sorry. Of course I want to marry you.”

“Gwen,” he protests, “I’m serious. It’s okay if you want to at least take a few days to think things over.”

She smiles half-heartedly. “I think it’s a little too late for that, whatever you might think.” And as he frowns, she says, “No, my dear, I went through all of this after you told me you loved me the first time. I decided then that whatever came with _this_ , being with you was worth it.”

“Is that why you waited a week to say it back?” Arthur exclaims. “My god, I was on pins and needles that entire time.”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen says. “I know. I had to be sure. And I am, truly.” She gives him an earnest look. “But Arthur, you’ve spent your entire life in this fishbowl. You’re going to have to allow me a couple freak-outs here and there.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “So...just how many people do you think Morgana is inviting?”

Gwen groans. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

*

“Please tell me you’re coming,” Gwen says. “Please. I don’t think I can survive this without you.”

Elena laughs good-naturedly. “Why, Gwen, it’s only _the_ event of the social season! After your wedding, of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Shut up,” Gwen says. “And thanks.”

“Besides,” Elena says gloomily, “I have to go. Vivian’s still trying to get her website off the ground, and she’s convinced that the more media exposure she gets, the better it will be for the site.”

“Oh, dear. That challenge from Arianna Huffington really set her off, didn’t it?”

“Vivian’s never been one to back down from a fight,” Elena says. “Unfortunately.”

“I still don’t see why she refused the offer to run the British end of things.”

“Please, Gwen.” Elena affects a high voice that is startlingly similar to her girlfriend’s tones. “The internet is _global_. There’s no such thing as having bureau offices anymore.”

“Ah, of course. How could I have been so silly?”

“How indeed,” Elena agrees. “So. Your party of fabulous birthdayness. Oh crap, I’m going to have to dress up, aren’t I?”

“I refuse to feel sorry for you,” Gwen tells her. “Morgana’s picking out my outfit.”

“I refuse to feel sorry for _you_. Morgana has impeccable taste. Or so I’m told. Vivian will probably pick out mine.”

“Okay, fine,” Gwen says. “You win.”

“Why does winning always feel so much like losing?” Elena says.

*

Since Morgana won pretty much all the other arguments about the location, entertainment and food at Gwen’s party, Gwen feels perfectly within her bounds to put her foot down about the bloody limo.

“But Gwen,” Morgana protests, “you’ve never even been in a stretch limo.”

“And I don’t ever intend to be,” Gwen retorts. “Maybe in America they’re fine, but here they look ridiculous. What’s wrong with the cars you lot normally use?”

“They’re not very birthday-ish.”

“Morgana,” Gwen says slowly. “Are you losing your mind over this party because all the protocol officers won’t let you help more with the wedding? Would you feel better if you were more involved?” She opens her eyes very wide. “Do I need to tell them to share?”

Morgana glares at her. “I don’t even care about your stupid wedding.”

Gwen snorts.

“And that wasn’t very queenlike,” Morgana says, earning a tongue stuck out in her general direction. “That wasn’t either.” 

“Seriously,” Gwen says. “What’s all this about?”

“I just,” Morgana says, then trails off, worrying her lip. 

“What, Morgana?”

“I just want people to get to know you, like I do. Cause I know that once they do, they’ll love you, like I do.”

Gwen narrows her eyes at her friend. “What aren’t you telling me?” She thinks for a moment. “Oh, I see. Once they ‘get to know me’, they’ll love me...indicating that there are people who don’t love me right now?”

“It’s not that they don’t....You’re an enigma, Gwen. You’ve been perfectly pleasant and likable and _nice_ , and as far as the people who actually have met you, well, they all love you. But for the rest of the world...you’ve managed to keep yourself to yourself, mostly. You’re reserved, and cautious. The press can see that, and they don’t know how to take it. They think you’re hiding something.”

“You told me yourself that these things take time.”

“Right,” Morgana says, frustrated, “but that was months ago! And they’ve had nothing new since the engagement was announced.”

Gwen sighs, picking at the threads on her couch. “Look, I know I probably haven’t handled myself the way that...a proper princess-in-waiting would, or you would. But a proper princess-in-waiting probably would have had years to prepare for the idea of giving up her privacy. She probably would have been looking forward to it, to everything. It was weird enough just _dating_ Arthur, but now.... Elyan remarked the other day that he’s dreading the commemorative stamps because he didn’t like the idea of people licking his sister, and I just stopped and stared at him because it never even occurred--I’m going to be on a _stamp_ , Morgana. People are going to be _licking_ me!”

Morgana laughs.

“It’s not funny!” Gwen protests, smiling despite herself.

“It’s kind of funny,” Morgana says. “Oh, dear. Let’s hope Lancelot doesn’t go all pine-y and buy a booklet or something. You know. To lick.”

“Eww, _Morgana_.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Anyways, my point is...every time I think I get a handle on things, something comes up that totally throws me off-balance, and I have to spend a day and a half regaining my footing. So a couple months might seem like a long time to you, but I...” Gwen sighs again. “I’ll get better. I promise.”

Mogana gives her a sympathetic look. “Gwen, that idea of a ‘proper princess-in-waiting?’ It’s rubbish. The only thing that a future princess needs to have is Arthur’s love and support, and you’ve got that. Everything else is just superficial.”

“You always know the right thing to say,” Gwen says. “How do you always know what to say?”

“That’s what I say about you,” Morgana replies. “How is it that we always give the best advice but can never manage our own lives?”

“I don’t know,” Gwen muses. “That must be some law of the universe, like Murphy’s law. ‘Morgana’s law.’”

Morgana laughs. “I like it. Except, you know, for the part where the truth of it rather makes me want to cry.” Her phone beeps, and she thumbs at it for a moment. “Oh! Miuccia says it’s ready! She’s going to send it today.”

“Miuccia?” Gwen repeats. “Send? What?”

“Miuccia Prada. From Milan,” Morgana says impatiently. “Your _dress_ , Gwen.”

“Oh,” Gwen says blankly. “Oh, balls. I have a wedding dress.”

“Yup,” Morgana says distractedly, frowning down at her phone. “Oh dear. She wants to schedule the final fitting the day of your party. She’s flying in specially, and that’s the only date that works.”

“So?” Gwen says. “It’s not like you’re letting me do anything for the party anyways.”

“What is it?” Morgana says. “Your voice went all funny there.”

“I have a dress,” Gwen says again. “This is real, isn’t it? I mean, it’s a dress and it’s mine, and it’s not like I can do anything else with it. Prada doesn’t have a return policy, does it?”

“Uh, no, Gwen,” Morgana says. “I’m pretty sure you can’t return couture wedding dresses from Prada. But hey! Guess what this means?”

“If you say ‘More shopping,’ I might have to kill you.”

Morgana grins. “Then I won’t.”

*

“Er, Gwen?” Arthur says. “Don’t be mad.”

Gwen flicks a look at him over the top of the paper. “Generally speaking, whenever someone says ‘Don’t be mad,’ it’s usually because they expect the other person to be mad.”

Arthur looks uncomfortable. “Well, yes, I know. But still.”

_“What?”_

“Catrina wants to come to the fitting. I mean, your fitting. Of the dress.”

Gwen gapes at him. “Are you joking? Whatever for? She hasn’t shown any interest in the wedding so far.”

“I know, but some idiot columnist for the _Times_ brought up my comment about my mother being the love of my father’s life again, and so now Catrina’s pissed off at me all over again.”

“So...in retaliation...she wants to come to my dress fitting?” Gwen says slowly.

“I think...she wants to be seen as more involved,” he says. “Remind the public that she’s part of the family too. Which she is, of course,” he amends hastily.

“Arthur, you don’t have to pretend to me that you like her, remember?” Gwen says dryly. “I’ve met the woman, too.”

“Ugh, I know,” Arthur says. “I’m so sorry.”

“Well, on the plus side, she and Morgana will be so busy fighting with each other that maybe they won’t bother me so much.”

“You do know that I love you, right?” he says, taking her into his arms.

“Hmmm. You haven’t mentioned anything about it in the last hour or so,” she replies, grinning up at him.

“Well, I do. Enormously, stupidly love you. Wish-I-could-make-all-of-this-wedding-shit-go-away love you. Am-seriously-considering-eloping love you.”

“Are you, now? That’s quite a bit of love, considering the entire nation would murder us both. Not to mention all the BBC executives.”

Arthur laughs. “I can’t believe we have to coordinate our wedding with the bloody BBC. Bugger it. I’ll give up my claim to the throne. Morgana can be queen--”

“--Morgana would make a terrible queen,” Gwen objects, her own grin widening. 

“--and we can run away together,” he continues. “What shall we do? What did I want to do when I was little? I know! Farming! We can be farmers, in Devon or wherever.”

“Arthur Pendragon,” she says mock sternly. “Have you ever even seen a cow in your life? Would you have any earthly idea what to do with one?”

“There are cows wandering around Balmoral,” Arthur says. “Or maybe those are sheep.” He waves a hand vaguely. “Whatever, I am sure we could figure it out. Merlin’ll know what to do, he was practically a farmer growing up.”

“Being from the country does not make one a farmer, Arthur,” Gwen says, but before he can retort she adds, “You really wanted to be a farmer when you were a boy?”

“Er...It’s possible I just really liked the tractors,” he says. 

*

The thing is, Gwen sort of likes fashion. She’ll never be the cutting-edge fashionista that Morgana is, but she appreciates pretty clothes when she sees them. And it turns out that her wedding dress is the definition of pretty.

“It’s gorgeous,” Morgana corrects. "My god, Gwen. Arthur’s going to forget his vows.”

“He had better not,” Catrina says, her lip curling in what could either be amusement or horror. Gwen can never tell with her. “It would be ever so mortifying if the future King of England can’t even remember a simple vow.”

Morgana eyes the other woman. “ _I_ think people would find it romantic.”

“You would, dear,” Catrina replies. “But you’re very young.”

As she has been doing all afternoon, Gwen intervenes before things can escalate. “Maybe we can have cue cards hidden somewhere,” she says mildly. “I’m sure I can manage to fit a few down the bodice.”

Miuccia laughs, looking up from the floor where she was fussing with the hemline. “If you can fit anything down the bodice, then it does not fit correctly.”

“I say it fits perfectly,” Catrina says. “There’s enough cleavage to keep the lads interested, but it’s not at all slutty. Gwen, have you decided on the jewels yet? Did you look at the photos I sent you yesterday?”

“Uh,” Gwen says. “Not yet.”

“I’ll tell you what, we’ll go over to the vaults after this, take a look in person,” Catrina says. “Photos can only tell a girl so much.”

“Gwen doesn’t usually go for the huge jewelery pieces,” Morgana says. “It’s not really her style.”

“Nonsense,” Catrina says briskly. “She’ll change her mind once she sees what the royal collection has to offer. Besides, a neckline like _that_ is dying for some ornamentation, don’t you think, Miuccia?”

Besides being a world-class designer, Miuccia is well-versed in negotiating disputes between people who were accustomed to getting what they want. “Either way, it could work,” she says diplomatically. “It depends on what will make Gwen feel most comfortable.”

“At the very least, one of the small tiaras, to hold the veil in place. Oh! I know just the one!” Catrina snatches up her phone and begins thumbing through it, no doubt looking for a photo.

“Well, _I_ think Gwen would do very well with just a pair of drop earrings or something,” Morgana says. “Keep things simple and elegant, like the dress.”

“She’s marrying the heir to the English throne, Morgana,” Catrina replies. “She has to look the part.”

“Are you implying that Gwen doesn’t look the part?” Morgana asks, her voice low and dangerous. 

Catrina trills with laughter. “Oh Morgana, don’t spout such rubbish, I said nothing of the sort. My point is simply that as the Princess of Wales, she will be expected to wear the Crown Jewels out and about. What better time to start wearing them but at her wedding?”

“Why don’t _you_ wear them, if you’re so keen?”

“Well at someone else’s wedding, it’s really not the thing, is it...”

The bickering continues. Gwen sighs, meeting Miuccia’s amused eyes, and tries not to to listen.

*

“How was it?” Arthur asks later.

“I need a drink,” Gwen says grimly.

“Oh, boy,” Arthur replies.

*

Like so many things Morgana has a hand in, the party is completely overblown. In some respects, it might be considered a smashing success. The club is decked out in velvet and shiny taffeta, the food reaches new levels of culinary genius and the drinks flow freely. Hollywood royalty shows up to mingle with actual royalty, and the result is every paparazzo’s wet dream.

The reality is a little more of a nightmare, from Gwen’s point of view. The paparazzi had gone mad when she stepped out of the car, howling her name and various questions (“Gwen, what are you wearing tonight?” “Who’s designing the wedding dress?” “Give us a preview of the guest list, love!”). Not even the appearance of Morgana and Leon, climbing out after her, did much to divert the attention directed at her.

The inside of the club isn’t much better, seeing how it’s filled with people she doesn’t know. Unfortunately, Gwen has fast realized that the most important skill in her new life will be the ability to make pleasant small talk with people she’s never met before, all the while looking like she’s having the time of her life. It’s something Arthur is naturally good at, and Morgana as well. When Gwen had asked her friend what the secret was, Morgana laughed and said, “You don’t have any problems talking to people when you’re drunk. Pretend that you’re drunk.”

Which isn’t particularly helpful advice. Gwen decides instead that she will simply _get_ drunk, and take it from there. 

She spends fifteen minutes talking to a horribly earnest young MP from the western part of Scotland about the possibility of the Prince joining his initiative on something to do with fishing rights and another champagne-soaked half hour with a junior finance minister who either doesn’t realize or simply doesn’t care that she has absolutely no idea what he is talking about. Then she’s cornered by an aggressive publicist for some West End show, who tries to get her promise to attend the opening night, as it is apparently going to be “ _the_ social event of the season--after your wedding of course.”

“Oh, of course, er...well, I’ll have to check my schedule,” Gwen says, inching away, “So much to do for the wedding, you understand. It’s the social event of the season, after all!” She makes a beeline for the nearest waiter.

By the time Arthur finds her and tells her that Elyan had been discretely sick in a rest room and just as discretely sent home, Gwen’s had several fortifying glasses of champagne and thus feels like nothing further can discomfort her. “Why’d he get drunk?” she asks Arthur. “‘S not like anyone grilled him for _his_ opinion on the fate of the euro.”

“Weatherby got you, too?” Arthur says sympathetically. “He is such a wanker. Anyway, I guess Dominique broke up with him. Elyan. Not Weatherby.”

“Again?” Gwen says.

“It was something to do with a newspaper wanting to know who he was bringing to the wedding,” Arthur says vaguely. “Although I don’t entirely understand why she would have chucked him over that. Gwen, you’re going to have to talk to him about his role in all this. I’m afraid everyone in your family is going to be of intense interest to the people, and Elyan is a young, good-looking, single fellow...”

“Oh, _god help me_ ,” Gwen says savagely, and goes in search of more alcohol.

Morgana may be prone to throwing ridiculously opulent parties but she is also Gwen’s closest friend, which is probably how she is able to track Gwen down in a little pantry off of the main room, sipping £500 champagne straight from the bottle.

“You hate this,” Morgana says, squeezing into the pantry and nicking the bottle. She takes a long, guilty gulp.

“I don’t...hate it,” Gwen says. “Everything’s beautiful. You’ve completely outdone yourself.”

“You hate it,” Morgana repeats. “Oh my god, what was I thinking? There’s nothing about this party that is at all you.”

“Well...” Gwen says.

“It’s okay, you can say it.” Morgana takes another miserable sip. 

“I could have done without the cherub ice sculptures,” Gwen says. “I mean, they were nice at first, but now they’re just sort of...” she trails off, searching for words. 

“Creepy?” Morgana supplies.

“I was going to say ‘drippy,’” Gwen replies, and then they both start giggling helplessly. 

“I just,” Morgana continues after a moment, “I just thought that if this party was perfect, it would help. Introduce you properly. Or something.”

“Make people like me, you mean,” Gwen says, and Morgana’s lips twist up wryly.

“I suppose throwing an extravagant party during a recession might not have been the best way to go about it.”

“Mmm,” Gwen says absently, “probably not. But Morgana--you and Arthur and the Palace can do as much prepping and laying the groundwork as you like, but it doesn’t matter if I don’t do anything myself to help you.”

“I know,” Morgana replies. “I understand that you want Arthur, not the Prince, but unfortunately--”

“They go together,” Gwen finishes. “Yeah, I know.”

“Do you?” Morgana asks. “Truly? Because Gwen, your wedding is in a month. You’re going to have to choose, actually _choose_ , sooner rather than later.”

Before Gwen can respond, the door bursts open. It’s Elena, looking unusually aggrieved. “There you are! We have a problem.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Merlin.”

*

The next morning, Gwen sits in a side parlor in Buckingham Palace, waiting for Arthur. The room is large and airy, flooded with sunlight, but Gwen feels the walls closing in on her oppressively. Although, she reflects, that could possibly be a result of her hangover. There are newspapers strewn about the couch next to her, but she’s looked at them too many times already. She wishes someone would come and take them away. She realizes with a start that someone probably would, if she asked.

Arthur enters the room, looking every bit as tired as she feels.

“Well?”

“My father says I should accept it.”

Gwen snorts. “Of course he does.”

“He says we don’t need the scandal so close to the wedding. He says I should have known better. He says I need to”--and here Arthur’s voice goes deeper, mimicking Uther Pendragon-- “‘surround myself with people who know how to comport themselves.’”

“Does that mean what I think it means?” Gwen asks, shocked.

He sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Arthur...”

“Gwen, a photographer discovered Merlin having sex in a public restroom, with _Gwaine_ of all people--”

“And that’s just it, isn’t it,” Gwen says, jumping off of the couch in agitation. “If it had been a _girl_ , everyone would’ve just laughed it off. How many of your father’s ministers have been caught up in sex scandals with some young girl over the years? But because it’s a boy--”

“It’s not just any boy,” Arthur interrupts. “It’s Gwaine. He’s one of us--”

“One of you,” Gwen says coldly.

“All right, yes, one of my friends,” he says impatiently. “That makes everything even juicier. This story isn’t going to go away overnight.”

“ _They are our friends,_ ” she says. “Their lives are not just some story. When bad things happen to our friends, we stick by them. _Publicly_ , not privately.” Gwen sits down, suddenly deflated. “They didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe having sex in a washroom didn’t show the best judgement...”

“Technically, it is illegal, I believe,” Arthur says unhelpfully. She glares at him. 

“Arthur, don’t you see? If you, the Prince of Wales, publicly repudiate both of them, you are setting a terrible example.”

“You mean--”

“Of course. You don’t honestly think who Merlin sleeps with has anything to do with his job performance, do you?”

“Obviously not,” Arthur says irritably. “It has to do with his ability not to embarrass me, his employer, by having drunken sex in a washroom.”

“Yes, but how many people will think it has to do with the _person_ he was having sex with? Here you have an opportunity to stand up and say ‘What happens between two consenting adults is none of my business’ instead of acting all reactionary. Arthur, if you accept Merlin’s resignation, I’ll--I’ll--well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but you won’t like it.”

There’s a long silence. The room still feels oppressive, and now Gwen has the added weight of Arthur’s gaze, watching her carefully. She looks out the window at perfectly manicured gardens, thinking. 

“Gwen...” Arthur starts.

“I hate those flowerbeds,” she says abruptly. 

Arthur frowns. “What?”

“Those gardens. I used to think that I liked English gardens, but there’s no joy in these.”

“Uh...they’re meant to be structured.”

“Those gardens aren’t structured, they’re suffocated,” Gwen says. “There isn’t any air.”

“But...they’re outside,” Arthur says with the desperate air of someone who has completely lost the thread of the conversation and has no idea how to get back in.

“That is not at all what I mean,” Gwen says. “I want our children to have gardens they can play in.” Before Arthur can respond to this, she continues, “Arthur, if you don’t refuse Merlin’s resignation, I’ll go on television and tell everyone that I think you’re wrong and furthermore not the man--not the _prince_ \--I thought you were!” 

He blinks at her. “You would go on television. And give an interview. By yourself.”

“Yes,” she says fiercely. 

He sighs and turns away, raking his fingers through his hair. “Gwen, it’s not so simple.”

“I know. It’s messy and complicated, just like everything else in life. But you have an opportunity to make the best of a bad situation and help set an example for people along the way.”

There’s another long moment. Gwen waits, eyes on Arthur’s broad shoulders. Eventually, he turns back to her and smiles crookedly. “We.”

“What?”

“We have the opportunity. You’re riding this train with me now; I’m not letting you get off so easily. I’ll refuse Merlin’s resignation, but I want you there with me to help explain why.” He grins at her now, impishly. “I hope you were serious about that interview.”

“Oh,” Gwen says, taken aback. “Yes. I was.”

Arthur joins her on the couch, sliding a hand along her jawline and into the curls at the base of her neck. His thumb traces a ticklish pattern by her ear. “Well, it doesn’t have to be a television interview, I suppose. Print is fine.”

“I would, you know. For Merlin.”

He leans forward and kisses her gently. “I believe you.” Then he sits back, looking at her contemplatively. “What a queen you’ll be.”

Gwen huffs out a laugh, startled. “Don’t say things like that.”

“What? It’s true,” Arthur insists. “Queen Guinevere.” He scoots closer and pulls her into him. “My queen.”

"You make it sound like we should be back in the medieval period gallivanting around on horseback with cloaks fluttering in the breeze.”

“And swords,” Arthur says. “Don’t forget the swords.”

“Mmm, if you like,” Gwen says. “You’d have to wear armour too, I reckon. That probably wouldn’t be very comfortable.”

“I’d look dashing in armour,” Arthur says thoughtfully. “Don’t you think I’d look dashing?”

“I rather think the smell would override any dashingness,” Gwen replies.

“‘Dashingness’ isn’t a word.” 

“Can’t I, as future queen, make up my own words?”

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work like that,” Arthur says. 

“Well, what kind of a future king are you if you can’t make up your own words?” Gwen asks, settling more comfortably against him. She rests her chin on his shoulder, feeling an easing in her chest for the first time all morning.

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I’ll have to work on that.”

“I’ll help you,” Gwen says, lacing her fingers with his. The heavy sapphire on her ring finger flashes in the sunlight.

He kisses her temple, lips lingering close. “I know you will.”

**


End file.
